The Lines Between Slytherin and Gryffindor
by lucifer ravana
Summary: They've just been stretched a bit more. One of the first fanfics I've written for Harry Potter. Rated for non-con. HP/TR


The bed is sloppy. There are no other words to describe it. Dried cum and blood have saturated through the sheets and into the mattress underneath. There is no comforter, there is only one pillow and that's also caked in semen and blood. What sheets there were have been roughly yanked aside. Manacles are affixed to the bottom two posters of the bed while ropes are attached from the top.

The manacles are each around a pale ankle, too thin to be considered healthy but food is the last thing on the victim's mind.

He knows it. He goes down those stairs to view His victim with a touch of amusement and that ever-present glint of madness behind His eyes. He looks at His young victim. Thin, vulnerable in his naked state, and besmeared with blood, not all of it his own.

His victim had bitten back, had put up quite a fight. But that revolt had ended when He had broken him. Right now, His victim is asleep or passed out. Whichever. It makes no difference. A slap across the face wakes the boy up, green eyes quickly becoming alert to his surroundings and, subsequently, Him who looms overhead.

His victim is a thing of beauty, so much like Him it is almost surreal. Green eyes looking into green. Dark hair and dark hair. But they are not related. They do not share the same genes. Any similarities came from a long ago fluke. One that has yet to be rectified. But none of that matters right now. What matters is that He is satisfied and there is no one who satisfies Him quite like His victim.

The boy. It has always been the boy. The boy had awakened His yearnings, His needs. The boy had been sent to mock Him, to speak unspeakable things, things that did not exist in His world. In anger, rage, frustration, He had taken the boy the only way He knew how. He had to get through the boy's friends, his protectors, risking His own life, but oh, how it was worth it in the end. How the sight of the boy in front of Him, chained to the bed, eyes defiant, how it was so worth it.

The boy's blood would flow tonight like a fine red wine. He started His seduction by talking. "Do you like it here? Not the most comfortable of surroundings, but I'm sure it's better than most places you've been." A slow smirk came to His face. "I'm sure you're secretly enjoying this. Everything I put you through. You have an inner desire to be controlled, don't you? You want to be taken again and again. You want to feel your own pain rather than someone else's, don't you?"

He could see He was getting to the boy as His victim's glare intensified. His hand went up to touch the boy's face, a finger running along the delicate lines of his cheek. He saw the look of almost pleasure come to the boy's eyes and, instantly, He backhanded the boy. He cursed Himself for thinking of any similarity between Himself and this..this child! They had nothing in common save for their hatred of the other.

That was what this was all about. His own power and His own torment of the boy laying upon the bed. "For so many years, you have tormented me. You have hunted me. You have treated me like nothing more than a beast. And now, I am showing you just what it means to have power, true power, over another. You should be grateful." But the boy wouldn't be because the boy was too stupid to understand. Oh, he talked of so many things, of greatness and triumph and victory, but he knew nothing of what he wanted.

Just a boy, after all. And He, He was so much older, so much wiser. He could teach the boy so much if only the boy would *listen* instead of talk.

This is what it had come down to. The ultimate culmination of His plans, to stop the enemy before the enemy stopped Him. He would break this boy and He would have a damn fine time in doing so.

Lubrication was conjured up and He quickly prepared Himself, rubbing the lube in thoroughly and letting the boy watch Him enjoy Himself. He got off to the boy's eyes upon Him, knowing that this would be the only time His victim would be allowed to see pleasure. The boy would want it for his own, of course. It was human nature to want what one could not have. And after so many weeks of pain, the boy would take just about anything.

Without warning, He shoved himself past that tight ring of muscle and entered the boy's body, feeling his innards shift around His large member. Yes, truly this was paradise..such an endless tide of bliss, the tightness of the hole, the forbidden art of taking what He wanted, of knowing just whom He was fucking and the power that flowed between the two. How He hated it when it ended.

He was always surprised at how the boy squirmed, trying to move away and how he felt so damn constricted, too constricted, whenever He entered. Perhaps the boy had been a virgin to this before He had gotten ahold of him. No, such was an impossible thought. The boy had his friends to see to his every need. All he needed to do was ask for a fuck and a fuck he would receive. But had he ever asked?

No use in dwelling on such things right now. Not when He felt such a way, powerful and yet, weak. Weak compared to this boy. This fool of a boy who had haunted His thoughts for so long. He would not feel weak again! He was the Master now!

Angrily, He set His own pace, roughly pounding Himself into the boy's body, wanting to hear him scream for mercy, cry out in pain or torment. He wanted his screams to be heard around the world. He wanted the boy's friends to hear him yell, hear him cry. He wanted His revenge on past slights that had been dealt out to Him just because of this boy. Just because of this weak fool who thought himself strong enough to take Him on.

But the boy maintained his silence, his hands gripping on the bed sheets, his eyes tightly shut as his insides were ripped apart by the unrelenting Man atop him. How He hated this. Hated having to break the boy in this manner. If He had it His own way, the pace would be almost gentle. He could help the boy, really He could. He could take him under His wing, guide him, show him the true path. But this was what the boy constantly chose for himself.

Without a scream, without a cry, He had to continue his treatment of ripping apart at the boy's insides, of using him as He would a tool until the boy gave in. The boy had spirit, He knew that, but even spirit had to die at some point. And when it did, He would be ready to mend those wings the way He saw fit.

With a cry of rage, He came hard inside the young body, filling him up and then yanking Himself out. His cum did not drip out with Him, it stayed inside the boy's body just as He wanted it to. He wanted the boy to feel it inside, wanted him to know that He was inside him still, that He would always be inside him.

"I will be back down here after dinner to speak some more with you," He said after calming Himself down. A cleaning spell was used on Him but He did not touch the boy with His wand. The boy did not deserve it. "Need to give you your medication." A needle filled with the venom that was used for Azkaban's victims, depriving the person of the magic that ran through their veins. One of His supporters had supplied it to Him.

With that, He turned on His heel and went upstairs, closing, locking, and warding the door behind Him before adjusting the silencing spell in case the boy started screaming again.

"Harry! Harry, where have you been?"

He looked up at Ginny who was standing inside His living room. "Downstairs working out." It wasn't a lie. "Why? What's wrong?"

"It's Cho, Harry. She was found dead at her house just last night. They say she's been dead for three weeks and.." And Ginny stopped talking, her eyes staring straight ahead.

He did not need to follow her gaze. He knew what she was looking at. An old diary. Black. With the initials T. M. Riddle printed upon the cover.


End file.
